


Lesson Plans

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Series: Professor Dean Winchester AU [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Professor Dean Winchester, Reader-Insert, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of my readers sent me this message:  “I'm gonna need you to keep writing Professor Dean forever. Like he can just be an ongoing thing. If there's an entire chapter about Dean lesson planning on a Sunday afternoon, so be it." This came from that!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick ficlet to add to the Professor!Dean AU.

"Have you seen that stack of papers anywhere?" Dean asked. "The one I had on the kitchen table an hour ago?" He pawed through the books and papers spread across the coffee table, several of them fluttering to the floor at his feet. "I need them for next week's lectures and I can't remember where I put them."

You shook your head, watching him from your spot on his couch. He was stalking around the room in his barefeet, his jeans slung low on his hips, his tight gray t-shirt pulling up to show just the barest glimpse of the skin above his waistband every time he pushed a hand through his hair. He was holding his black rimmed glasses in his hand, absentmindedly twirling them between his thumb and forefinger as he wandered the small living room of his house. You needed to get him to focus. Maybe getting him to think about something else would help.

“Why is there a bird on your shirt?” you asked.

“What?” he mumbled, turning to look at a you, a bemused expression on his face.

“Why is there a bird on your shirt?” you repeated, pointing at the large bird on the front of his shirt.

Dean looked down at the shirt, pulling it away from his body. “I have no idea,” he laughed. “I hate shopping. I probably saw it on a mannequin and just bought it.” He put his glasses on and smiled at you. “Are you sure you haven’t seen -?” He stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning on his face. He turned and sprinted up the stairs, coming back down a few minutes later with a book in his hand. Tucked inside was a stack of papers. He leaned over you and kissed your forehead.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“No problem,” you shrugged, returning your attention to the book on your lap.

Dean dropped to the floor in front of you, his back against the couch. He picked up the remote on the coffee table and turned up the volume on the football game, glancing at it occasionally as he worked on his plans for the next week, pen scratching across the paper, muttering to himself.

You didn’t interrupt him; you enjoyed watching him work. You’d been at his house most of the weekend, the two of you almost acting like a real couple. You’d ordered pizza, watched TV and made love countless times. He’d grumbled all weekend about the work he needed to do, putting it off until the last possible minute, giving all of his attention to you instead. He’d taken his things out of his backpack, shuffled some papers around, pulled a few books off of the shelf, but he’d never actually started on it until the last football game of the weekend had come on early Sunday evening.

When Dean did finally settle down to work, he became completely absorbed in what he was doing. He didn’t talk, unless you counted muttering to himself repeatedly as talking. He scribbled out somewhat legible notes in a spiral bound notebook, referring often to a worn, brown leather journal filled to the brim with handwritten notes and drawings. Every now and then, you’d see him use his laptop to search the web for a piece of information, but he seemed to rely more on his memory and the notes in his journal than on anything he found on the internet.

The two of you settled into comfortable silence, you studying, him building his lesson plans and lectures for the coming week. The football game was in the third quarter before Dean moved from his spot on the floor. He pushed himself to his feet with a sigh.

“Beer?” he asked.

“Sure,” you smiled, trying not to laugh at the way his hair stood up all over his head from him constantly running his fingers through it or to stare at the way his shirt was clinging to his broad shoulders and his biceps. Dean had already accused you of being extremely distracting, which you’d denied, but considering the way he was constantly touching you or pushing his work aside to draw you into a kiss that inevitably led to a long makeout session, you were starting to think you were a distraction.

He disappeared into the kitchen and you could hear water running, the refrigerator opening and closing and the clink of beer bottles. He returned a few minutes later, two beers in hand. He returned to his position on the floor, handing you your beer over his shoulder. You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head.

Dean pulled your leg over his shoulder, his hand casually resting on your calf. He put the book he’d been thumbing through on his lap, his leg propped up to hold it steady. He rested his cheek against your bare thigh, his short beard tickling you. You giggled and tried to pull away, but when he realized what you were doing, he slid his hand up your leg, gripping it tight and placing wet, open-mouthed all along your inner thigh until you were squirming and kicking, trying to get away. He laughed and turned around, the book on his lap falling to the floor as he grabbed your waist and pulled you against him.

“Stop distracting me,” he whispered, his mouth hovering just over yours as he slid his hand under the edge of the shorts you’d been wearing all day. “I’ve got lesson plans to write.”

“Me, distracting you?” you gasped. “I beg to differ, Professor Winchester.”

“I love it when you call me that,” he growled low in the back of his throat. He pulled you off of the couch into his lap. “Say it again.”

“I will if you kiss me,” you breathed, taking his face in your hands and scratching your fingers over his beard, your mouth against his. “Professor Winchester.”


End file.
